Christmas memories on Calhoun Street

Bill Humphrey was a dear man who tried his best to be tough and gruff. He and his wife Mickey lived down the street from us at Kelly barracks. On days when weather permitted, he would walk past our house from corps headquarters, where he served as the commanding general’s exec.

I loved him to death, but he could be a pain.

Taking President Carter’s energy conservation to heart, he would detour through our quarters turning off lights and even went so far as to go to his next door neighbors’ and unplug their outdoor Christmas decorations. It didn’t matter a bit to him that this was the home of his boss, who fortunately had a sense of humor and who marched right back over and unplugged the Humphreys’ Christmas tree.

Bill gave a great imitation of a curmudgeon when I rang his doorbell one holiday season and asked how many paper bags he and Mickey wanted to put out for the Roosevelt Village Christmas Eve luminaire celebration.

“We’ll light them as soon as it gets dark,” I said.

“Do what?” he growled.

I explained that after they were all lit, we’d walk around the neighborhood, sing carols and maybe have a glass or two of gluhwein on the way.

Bill never could pronounce my name and called me Laura May.

“Laura May,” he said firmly, “I am not going to put out one of those things. Not me.”

“Well,” I said, sticking to my conviction that everyone should participate, “we’ll just put them out for you.”

You have probably already guessed that as soon as we came near his quarters with the makings for the luminaires, here came Bill, his usual grouchy self, ready to help.

When we moved to Myrtle Island, I was stumped. On the entire island, there were maybe seven full-time households. Not exactly a lot of people for a right long expanse of road.

Aha. We would move “Operation Luminaire” to the center of Bluffton. We would line Calhoun Street with luminaires.

And we did.

Scott’s sold us paper bags, the Ulmer family provided sand and the Boy Scouts were able helpers.

We must have used a zillion matches trying to get all of those candles lit.

But, at last, on Christmas Eve, when the sun went down and the luminaires glowed from one end of Calhoun Street to the other, it was worth every backbreaking moment.

With song books and flashlights in hand, we headed down the middle of the street.

There wasn’t a car to be seen.

In front of dark, empty houses we sang at the top of our lungs, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

And until we got near to Highway 46, right at the Martin House, there wasn’t a person who came to the front door.

Then, surprise, surprise, some “carolees” became “carolors” and came out to walk with us, their voices fresh and strong.

With children in baby buggies and in wagons, with parents hoping the night air would make little ones sleepy so Santa could do his thing and with frozen noses and numb feet, we gathered together in front of the Church of the Cross that cold December night.

“Joy To the World,” we sang in harmony, Pressana Grant’s powerful voice joining ours as in the luminaires’ glow, we sent our Christmas wishes loud and clear across the May River.

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